Irish lad living in Boston

I have no food and I have no money. I don’t even have a real piggy bank. Years ago, I had a Henry Hippo piggy bank and a book full of Sammy the Slutty Seal stamps. Now… now I just have an envelope that says piggy bank on it. But when you’re down and out, you have to find a way to make the best of things. The way I found was… a pub crawl… forming a gang… and, of course, having sex with fat people.

I always like to start my day with a wank and this day was no different. A morning tug is the shortest of the wank family and the most un-fulfilling. It lasts 40 seconds and is instantly regretted. But it serves one vital purpose. It provides just enough energy to peel my sweaty back off the bed sheets and plant my aircraft carrier feet on the floor. In the unlikely event that it doesn’t put a spring in my step, I keep a toaster at the side of my bed that I can stick my hand into, horrifically burning myself to give me that kick I need to get out of bed.

After my sin making, I sat on the edge of my bed looking in the mirror at the sleep deprived, constantly hungover, miserable slug, staring back at me. When I couldn’t look at the snail creature anymore, I walked naked to the kitchen to see if I could find something to eat. I needed some sustenance for the pub crawl ahead. I looked in my roommates’ cupboards and wondered what it must be like to have food and not be starving all the time.

My cupboard held only one thing. A glass called Henry. I filled up Henry with some luke warm tap water and we retreated to my room. I knew the warm water upset Henry, who was the last in a long-line of esteemed glasses, that only ever held the best of water – his family had been wiped out in a tragic tablecloth trick at a Christmas party. As I sipped on Henry’s head, I promised him that one day we would live in a place where he would be filled with only the coldest and freshest spring water. No more would the other glasses laugh and poke fun at him. A tear ran down the side of Henry’s face as I told him of our future paradise. LSD is a curse.

While in my room, I went hunting for wild coins that roamed about on my floor. Praise Pol Pot, I found a few coins and a mysterious five dollar note under my bed. My booty totaled a period inducing $5.57 cents! (This is an important piece of information and you need to jot it down in your Junior Detective O’ TooleClue-Pad). It was time to head to the store and claim my prize. I think I got dressed but I can’t really remember.

The smell of succulent chicken dancing on a hot grill, filled my nostrils as I glided towards the deli counter. I looked at the menu board and searched for my first proper meal in three to six days. $5.80… $5.85… $5.70… My stomach shouted some obscene noises at the menu and began to cry. Fortunately, I discovered the power of smell or… IMAGINEATING!

You see, by taking in great whiffs of the smell of chicken, I found I could fool myself into thinking I was eating it. I stood next to the deli taking in the glorious smell of chicken, while softly chewing on either side of my giant tongue. But before I was able to buy something, I was escorted out of the store by an angry manager… sorry womanger. I don’t know if she threw me out for imagineating, or for my food erection that was pointing towards the chicken. Who knows.

Back in my house, I searched around for some food. I found some leftovers from last night’s dinner and tucked into that. I licked and probed the inside of that emptty bag of Mighty Munch like I was in that movie classic Hungry Murdering Musical Irish Lesbians 5: Kill Her With Your Tongue… and then stick a harp up her arse.

Maybe this was a low moment in my life, digging around an empty packet of crisps trying to find a few pockets of taste. But the lowest moment in my life? Certainly not. The lowest moment came 5 minutes later when I started taking shots of Fresh Burst Listerine while singing Do you really want to hurt me by the Culture Club. I figured even if I got sick all over the place later, my breath would still smell fantastic.

I got my minty self together and headed into Boston to the first pub on my list. I met up with another Irish lad, David, who had just recently arrived in Boston and was interested in joining my newly formed gang – The Really Excellent Totally Awesome Rebel Drinkers… or THE R.E.T.A.R…. actually forget it. After a few drinks, I began to feel like my perverted self again. As I looked around for the drunkest girl in the bar, David said something very peculiar to me…

Its bad enough that they let these 19 and 20-year-old girls in here, but its a disgrace that they let them get this drunk…

I’m sorry I have no idea what you said. I understood most of the words like girls, 19, drunk and anal gangbang but you completely lost me on the point you were trying to make…

I decided to give David a few life lessons after his little outburst. Knowledge that I will now share with you. Don’t let them fool you, girls love drinking too much. Girls also love when you’re drunk and obnoxious to them. Play hard to get. A few comments along the lines of God must have had a massive seizure inducing stroke while he was sculpting your face and they’ll be bubbling in their pants for you.

But David didn’t listen to his leader’s advice. A few hours later, I caught him asking some girls what their names were, what they did in college and what kind of music they liked! They just kept smiling at him, pushing out their breasts and giving him a bunch of fake numbers. Of course, he assumed they were real. Amateur. On his 10th or 11th laughing girl, I knew it was time for the Lord of Sex to bail him out andBring the Cool…

I’m Ireland too you know… from Irish…

Want to see maa tattooo? Its right… down near maa… BALLS!!

Unfortunately, just as the girls were going in for a sneaky feel, the bouncers crashed our party and gave chase. I accidentally tripped David on the way out but I’m sure the bouncers didn’t catch him.

Tucking my Steve Irwin killer back into my pants, I spotted a few fatties hanging around outside the bar. Each one dressed in their finest family tent only waiting for a drunken milky bar kid like myself to gobble up. I should have run away. But they held something amazing in their giant ferris wheel hands – food. Acres of it. I walked over to them, trying to look as fat as I could in the hope that one of them would pick me as their mate and feed me. The leader of the group, who looked like a descendant of the iceberg that sunk the Titanic, approached me with food in claw (to save her from any embarrassment I will not use her real name and instead refer to her as Giant Fat Arms).

I looked her dead in her swollen, cholesterol filled eyes and calmly asked her for a bite of her burger. GFA laughed out loud, drawing unneeded attention to her child eating face, which looked like a failed game of Minesweeper on its hardest level. She said I could have all the food I wanted as long as I took a swig of her drink first. I played her game… and lost.

I woke up in what, on first glance, looked like a morgue for whales. My eyes focused in on the marine life around and on top of me. The sea urchin who gave me the drink was pushed up against my sticky chest, while a previously undiscovered snorlax-lickitung hybrid, had me pinned in from behind. I slithered my way out of the nest and quietly gathered my clothes. I ran for the door but it was too late. A mesh of female genitalia blocked the doorway.

Where are you going my little leprechaun?

said the dribbling mess.

Her mouth wasn’t dribbling but some sort of haunted swamp between her legs was. Four human continents surrounded me. There was no point in trying to talk these land masses down. Another game of Hide the Hairdryer wouldn’t hurt… well it did… a lot. I hate myself.